


X-Wing

by sartiebodyshots



Category: Glee
Genre: Childhood Friends, Hospital, M/M, Star Wars - Freeform, post accident fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-20
Updated: 2012-04-20
Packaged: 2018-01-06 05:08:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1102778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sartiebodyshots/pseuds/sartiebodyshots
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Artie's accident, he's reluctant to get into that strange metal contraption.  But a strange boy wanders into his room to give him the mission he needs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	X-Wing

            “I don’t want to,” Artie says.

            To be honest Artie says “I don’t want to” to pretty much any request made of him these days. The little boy is frightened by the sterile room and the noises and the strangers coming and invading his space to poke and prod at him.  Mostly he is afraid of what he felt when the strangers poked at his legs.  Artie doesn’t feel anything in his legs any more.  Combined with the natural contrariness of eight year olds, he is becoming resistant to every suggestion given to him, even if that suggestion involved the promise of ice cream.

            The problem for Artie is that in this particular instance in order to get the ice cream he will have to get back in that… thing.  Oh Artie knows what it is called, but it is a thing for old people.  He’s only eight, and so logic dictates to him that the stupid metal contraption in the room (much scarier than those elephants adults mention sometimes but never seem to appear, to Artie’s constant dismay) cannot be for him.  The more he uses it the more he is giving into their lies. Artie swore to himself he would only use it if absolutely necessary, like if he really couldn’t hold his pee any longer.  Sure, he doesn’t want to use that thing, but he definitely doesn’t want to be a bedwetter.

            What Artie really wants to be, more than anything else in the world, is a dancer.  And that is why he refuses to get in the thing.  If he needs the thing he can’t be a dancer because it means his legs don’t work and Artie knows he needs working legs to be a dancer.  How can he put on more performances for his family if he can’t even walk to the bathroom? Artie refuses to give in because of his family, he tells himself, because they need to see him dance to Michael Jackson. What will they do without it?  His parents and sometimes aunts or uncles or grandparents would gather around while he danced to his favorite songs.  Artie would like the record to show that he got standing ovations every time.

            He turns his back on the doctor offering ice cream in a huff.  The doctor sighs and leaves, to Artie’s relief.

            Artie listens as a new pair of feet approach his bed.  These steps are different than the myriad of other steps he has heard in the past few days.  They are softer and don’t possess the busyness of the steps of the doctors and nurses. 

            “Hello?” a soft voice behind him says.

            “Hi,” Artie says, still feeling surly.

            Whoever had entered his room had decided to make himself comfortable, climbing into Artie’s bed.  In response to this intrusion, Artie decided to turn around and tell the boy off.  The boy was blonde, leaning up against the footboard of the bed, and staring at him in a way that made Artie kind of uncomfortable.

            “I am Sam,” the boy says, suddenly sounding much more sure of himself now that he is comfortably situated.

            Artie stares at him, not quite sure what to make of this revelation.

            “Do you like green eggs and ham?” Artie blurts out.

            Sam considers the question.

            “I don’t think so.  Wouldn’t that be moldy?  I don’t think mold would be that good to eat,” Sam says.

            “I guess you’re right,” Artie says.

            They stare at each other for a few seconds before Artie realizes that he hasn’t introduced himself yet.

            “I’m Artie Abrams, by the way. Why are you in my room?”

            Sam shrugs and looks around.

            “I was bored.  We were on our way to my Grandma’s house when my brand new baby brother got sick.  This was the closest hospital.  Everyone was making such a big deal about everything while I sat in the corner, but eventually my mom gave me some money and told me to go get food for myself,” Sam says, waving some money around vaguely.

            “Sorry,” Artie says.

            “You didn’t make my brother sick, did you?” Sam asks.

            Artie shakes his head and says, “but I don’t have any food.  I would be upset if I went to find food and ended up here.”

            Sam looks around and shrugs.

            “Here isn’t so bad.  You’re more interesting than food,” Sam says.

            “Here is awful,” Artie simply says.

            “Why are you here?” Sam asks.

            Artie huffs and looks away.  He hasn’t actually talked about what happened.  His mother tearfully told him everything and the doctors repeatedly asked him to tell them what he could remember.  When he refused, they sent a special doctor in to talk to him.  She talked quietly and carefully and seemed much less busy than the other doctors, but that just made him glare more at her as she asked him question after question.  Whether she asked about what happened or about home, he refused to say a thing until she left him alone. 

            All he wants is to be left alone.  That’s why he is surprised when his mouth starts moving.

            “My mom was driving down the road.  Mommy was late to some meeting, but she had to drop me off at day care first.  She went so fast that she didn’t see the other car at the intersection.  It ran into my door and I woke up here,” Artie says.  “I’m not sure how long ago that was, but I’ve been stuck in this bed ever since.”

            “Why don’t you get up?” Sam asks.

            “I can’t” Artie mumbles the truth he’s so uncomfortable with that he pretends it isn’t real.

            “What? I couldn’t hear you,” Sam says.

            “My legs don’t work,” Artie says.  “I’m broke.”

            He finally said it.  It is real now.  Artie braces himself for… something.  He doesn’t know quite how people will react, but he knows it can’t be good.  He already gets picked on for his smallness and his dorky glasses and his Star Wars lunchbox.  His little differences get him made fun of; Artie knows this big difference can only make that worse.

            “You’re wrong. Just because your legs don’t work doesn’t mean you’re broken,” Sam says.  “Maybe you could glare a little less though.”

            Artie looks at Sam, waiting for the catch.  There is always a catch.  Although he doesn’t think Sam can make him to do his homework since Sam is on vacation. 

            Instead of making fun of him though, Sam’s eyes light up as he glances at Artie’s bed table.  He lunges and crawls over Artie to grab something.  Artie feels a shot of worry because Sam has grabbed his Star Wars figurines.  If he runs off with them, Artie won’t be able to catch him. They’re his favorites, too.

            “Artie, these are so cool!” Sam says as he crawls back to the other side of the bed, action figures in hand.

            He holds them out to Artie, clearly gesturing for him to pick one.  Artie grabs his Luke figurine.  Sam grins at the Han figurine left in his hand. 

            “Han’s my favorite,” he says shyly. 

            “I always thought that it was so cool how Luke and Han went off and had adventures.  And Chewie!” Artie says.

            Sam makes a gurgling noise and Artie squints, tilting his head in confusion.

            “It’s Wookie!  You should totally know that!” Sam says indignantly.

            “That’s not Wookie!  It’s more like this,” Artie says, proceeding to make his own Wookie noises.

            Sam grins again and Wookies right back.  Obviously Artie just has to show him who is better.  They lose track of time and suddenly Sam has moved next to Artie and they’re laughing too hard to speak Wookie. 

            “We should go on adventures too!  It’ll be fun!” Sam says, still laughing.

            “Yeah that sounds like-“ Artie cuts himself off when he remembers the thing. 

            He stares at it and Sam follows his eyes.  Sam hops off the bed and rolls it over nearer to the bed.  Artie feels himself start to slink back into the surly mindset he had forgotten for a little while.

            “Captain Artie, your X-Wing is ready.  We’re on a mission to get food to the Rebel bases on Hoth!”   Sam says excitedly.

            Artie smiles a little bit. It sounds like a very important mission…

            “I’m not sure I know how to run an X-Wing,” Artie says.

            “We can work it out together,” Sam says, wheeling the thing over near Artie’s bed.

            Artie shifts towards the edge of the bed.

            “Do you know how to get in an X-wing?” Sam asks.

            “Only sorta,” Artie says.

            Having set the action figures aside, Sam holds his arms out awkwardly, like a cradle.  Artie ignores them and maneuvers himself into the thing like his doctors have told him.  It isn’t an easy process, nor is it completely successful.  One of his legs is still halfway on the bed.  Artie isn’t particularly comfortable because of the angle.  When Sam moves to try to help, Artie waves him off quickly.  If he is going to give into the thing, then he’s going to conquer it, too.

            When he’s adjusted, Artie looks up at Sam.  He’s worried that the strange and kind boy will be gone once he sees Artie so pathetically situated, but Sam is just smiling at him. 

            “You’re the coolest X-Wing pilot ever!” Sam exclaims. 

            Artie looks away because he feels embarrassed.  He isn’t used to any of this at all.  The wheels his hands are wrapped around, the wide smile, the hard seat, and the earnest eyes are all brand new things and Artie is overwhelmed.

            Artie gives an experimental push forward.  It’s difficult; he never was the strongest kid and his arms aren’t used to having to move his whole body.  He rolls his way towards the door, Sam just behind him. 

            “So what’s the mission?” Artie asks.

            Sam waves his money. 

            “Food is the mission.  Rather, your mission is to deliver food to the starving people of Samtoonie,” Sam says.

            Artie laughs and manages to push his way through the door.  He knows where the food is, so he takes the lead.  Sam falls a comfortable half step behind him: far enough back that he can follow him, but also close enough that they can talk naturally. 

            They chatter until they get to the food court. 

            Sam buys them food, brushing Artie off when he protests that he should pay for himself.  Artie lets him pay and finds them seats. 

            They sit and chat animatedly, unaware that Artie’s mom and doctor are watching them carefully.

            “This is good.  The more he interacts with his friends in his chair the more he’ll get used to it and the sooner they’ll stop pointing it out,” the doctor says.

            “I don’t know who that boy is.  It isn’t anyone from Artie’s school,” Mrs. Abrams says.

            “Really? It seems like they’ve known each other for a while,” the doctor says.

            “I know all of Artie’s school friends.  Should I be concerned?” Mrs. Abrams asks.

            “I don’t see why.  Artie seems comfortable and it’s the first time he’s been in the chair voluntarily.  I don’t want to interfere unless there’s a pressing issue,” the doctor says, sipping her coffee. 

            She nods, watching as her son waves his hand around and the blonde boy laughs in response. 

            Later, when she’s tucking Artie in to sleep, she notices that for the first time since the accident he looks kind of at peace.

            “Mommy,” Artie says, almost already asleep.

            “Yes dear?” Mrs. Abrams says.

            “I made a friend today.  He was really nice, but he said he had to leave tomorrow.  I don’t want him to leave.  Can we just keep him?  Like a really long sleepover…” Artie asks.

            “I’m sorry, honey, I wish we could but his family would miss him.  Goodnight,” Mrs. Abrams says.

            “Goodnight Mom,” Artie says, pulling the covers up higher and turning over.

            He dreams of flying.


End file.
